Chocolate Sauce Apocalypse
by merlinmercury
Summary: One look around the room and Dean was already certain he didn't want to know what had happened there.


One look around the room and Dean was already certain he didn't want to know what had happened there.

He was lying face-down and butt-naked on a mattress that was way too big and soft to belong in any of the crappy motels he'd ever lived in. God, he hoped he hadn't been the one to pay for whatever room he was in.

Which, of course, raised the question of who on earth had.

He shifted just a little in the sheets, which crackled slightly around him, and ick, that was not a good sign. Gingerly, he brought one of his hands up into his line of vision, grimacing when he saw it was smudged with something dark brown. No way in hell did he want to taste and find out, but it kind of smelled like chocolate sauce.

So. Apparently he'd had an exciting night.

Slowly, Dean pulled himself up into a sitting position to survey the damage.

And boy was there damage to survey.

For one thing, the brown stuff—the chocolate sauce—was everywhere. Everywhere as in finger-painted onto the walls, printed there in shapes that looked disturbingly like... okay, nope. Dean resolutely did not look at the chocolate butt-prints on the walls.

Instead, his eyes fell on a table lined with empty liquor bottles. He couldn't count them exactly from where he was, but there must have been at least twenty, half of them frosted glass Midori ones.

Dean's best guess at that point was that he'd gone home with a bachelorette party.

It was weird, though; he didn't even feel particularly hung over, which he really should have given that he couldn't remember a damn thing that had happened.

Dean wondered whether whoever it had been was still here, or whether they'd bailed on him, possibly left him to foot the bill for the mess alone. The mess, good lord. If that was the case he'd have to take his chances with climbing out the window and then go into hiding.

There was a pair of red satin underwear lying on the carpet, so either the chick (one of them?) was still here or she'd left without.

That said, there were a pair of unfamiliar and distinctly non-feminine-looking trousers on the ground not far away.

"Just how interesting did things get, here?" Dean muttered to himself, and went to sweep a hand through his hair before remembering about the chocolate.

He was answered by a growl—not a human-sounding growl, but an honest-to-god animal growl, from the en suite. It kicked Dean into action mode, and then he was sliding out of the bed, stepping over the shards of a broken lamp and rummaging through the pile of his clothes on the floor. His gun was still wrapped up amongst them, luckily. Gun in hand, he felt a whole lot calmer.

...And also kind of stupid, because he was still standing nude in some fancy hotel room covered in sticky topping with no real memory of how he'd come to be there—but Dean's life had always been weird, and so long as there was something to fight he could temporarily ignore almost any measure of lunacy. Thank god for the growling in the bathroom, he thought to himself as he tip toed purposefully across the room towards the white en suite door.

Slowly twisting open the handle, Dean readied himself. When the door creaked its way open, Dean lurched back around the corner to press his back up against the wall. He realised belatedly that he might even have left another ass print there, although that particular thought was a low priority given that there was an actual, real-looking tiger in his bathroom.

Goddamn it, he was living The Hangover.

He was halfway through deciding whether he should go ahead and shoot it or not, given that the tiger hadn't actually seemed interested in mauling him, when the room's other door swung open, and in waltzed—

Oh no.

No. This was worse than Dean had thought. Now he was regretting not finding himself a bachelorette party to go home with, pretending to be a stripper or whatever other humiliating-but-less-humiliating-than-this scenario he could devise from the wacky pieces of this puzzle.

"Morning Deano," said the Trickster. The tiger in the bathroom roared, and then with a snap of Gabriel's fingers it had disappeared. "Pop culture references," the archangel grinned, "couldn't help myself, you know me. Oh and by the way, you can thank me later for the magical hangover cure, you'd be having buckets of fun without it."

"What—" Dean began, but he failed to follow it up with anything other than the mouthed outlines of half-formed consonants.

"So, breakfast," Gabriel breezed on. "I'm in the mood for pancakes—maple syrup, strawberries, bacon. But I also want burgers. Help me out here?"

Now that Gabriel was in it, the whole ridiculous, debauched picture made a lot more sense. Dean was still pretty sure he didn't want to know what had gone on there last night, but...

"Definitely burgers," he said, despite himself.


End file.
